A Study in Magic: The Application
by Books of Change
Summary: The sequel to A Study In Magic. The Wizarding World is convinced of Voldemort's return a year early, but the Dark Lord is neither a fool nor one to let grass grow under his feet. Indeed, he has already started to cull out anyone who can work against him. Will Sherlock, John and Harry hunt down all the remaining Horcruxes in time? Sherlock HP crossover
1. Prologue

**A Study in Magic: The Application**  
by _Books of Change_

**Warning/Notes**: This is the sequel to _A Study in Magic, _which is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU posted here. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline was shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender was changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!

* * *

**Prologue**

The longest day of summer was drawing to a close, and the city of London was humming with excited activity, particularly in one of its dingier streets. There, a crowd of news agency vans surrounded a cordoned-off building like vultures to a corpse. Several cameramen were out adjusting their tripods or mounting their long-lens cameras on them. Those who had their equipment ready were filming the uniform constables standing in attention just outside the yellow tape, or the building where the mysterious shockwave that tore through that part of London and took out the power of an entire city block originated.

Eventually the orange sky darkened to a dusty blue, and by then police were flitting in and out of one particular flat. The mark of an epicenter was in the middle of its living room, plain as day. The flat's windows only had a few lonely pieces of glass clinging to their outer frames; the rest were out in the streets somewhere, wherever they landed after they were blown off. All that remained of the thin walls were the broken wood beams and bent iron pipes that once propped them up, and the surviving walls were all caved severely outwards. Bits of chair, table, cups and plates were smashed against the walls, some penetrating through the plaster.

Everything about the scene pointed to a bomb explosion. However, there was no trace of smoke or fire inside the tiny flat. The baffled firemen from the London Fire Brigade said as much to one of the SOCOs on site. An equally baffled bomb technician from the Met added her own expert opinion to the discussion. The walls caved from rapidly expanding air pressure, which implied a bomb. Yet there were no traces of chemicals or gas inside the flat … there wasn't even a hint of laundry detergent! How was this possible?

While the firemen and bomb technicians argued among themselves, two solemn-faced constables moved a body bag on a wheeled stretcher. Newly promoted Detective Inspector Sally Donovan and Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade watched them go, standing side by side. Donovan looked grim yet composed, but Lestrade appeared pale and a bit shaken.

"You knew her?" Donovan asked quietly, after the constables disappeared from view.

"She was the aunt of one of my daughter's school mates," muttered Lestrade. "I met her a few times."

Donovan nodded wordlessly.

The two stood quietly again for a few more heartbeats.

"Will you be alright, handling this?" Donovan asked at length.

Lestrade didn't reply for a blink. Then he let out a deep sigh.

"…Yeah," he said stoically. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Donovan, you take care of the crime scene. I'll notify family."

Donovan made an affirmative noise. Then she joined the SOCOs trying to collect evidence from the destroyed flat.

Lestrade headed out. On his way down, Lestrade made several calls. For the first, he used a black iPhone like any other. For the other calls, he used a mobile phone that was nothing more than a flat, palm-sized glass case that contained burning purple flames. As strange as the latter sight was, none of Lestrade's colleagues seemed to take notice of it.

Lestrade finally got inside his car. There, he put away the glass phone, and retrieved another glass phone that had green flames instead of purple from his inner jacket pocket. He then called out a name:

"Sherlock Holmes!"

-oo00oo-

Miles away from his usual stomping grounds in London, Sherlock Holmes was lounging in a comfortable chair with his feet propped up on a desk and a baby boy snoozing against his chest. The monitors on the desk, which Sherlock was studying lazily, showed John Watson, armed with what looked like an AK-47 and chasing a wizard named Sirius Black through a large span of grassy heath.

Sherlock let out an irritated grunt when the mobile phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He silenced it without disturbing the baby on his chest and continued to study the monitors.

The phone vibrated persistently, however. The baby eventually sensed the incoming calls and started to make keening noises. Only then did Sherlock pull out his phone and swipe the virtual bar.

"I told you I'm busy!" snarled Sherlock.

"LV murdered Amelia Bones," Lestrade snapped in reply.

Sherlock put his feet down and sat up straight. His grey eyes gleamed with intense focus.

"I didn't think he'd dilly-dally," he said in a low, rumbling voice.

"He obviously didn't," growled Lestrade. "The Ministry of Magic's handling the case, but media caught wind of it before I got there. Your brother probably knows all about it."

"He's likely discussing counter-strategies with the PM and Secret Service right now," said Sherlock snidely. "I assume this means the next Minister for Magic is going to be Rufus Scrimgeour?"

"Yes, but never mind that. When are you returning to London?" asked Lestrade.

"Why should I?" Sherlock sneered. "You already know who the murderer is—not that you can arrest him!—and for magical cases, there's no difference between me working here or there."

"I didn't think you'd prefer Yorkshire over London."

"I don't," said Sherlock between gritted teeth. "I hate it here. But Benedict still can't sleep when there are cars roaming about and John demanded training time—"

"Didn't think you'd bow to domestic concerns, either," said Lestrade, his grin evident from his voice.

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped.

Then he paused for a second. The monitors now showed John rapidly gaining on Sirius. Soon John had him face down on the ground with his wand arm twisted behind his back. John's next move was a lightning fast swipe to the left. A silvery cloak appeared out of nowhere and underneath the folds emerged a skinny, white-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. The boy—known as Harry Watson to the locals, but Harry Potter to others—put his hands up in surrender when John aimed the faux-AK-47 at him.

"John is done with basic training," said Sherlock, a satisfied smirk on his face. "We can now move on to urban guerrilla warfare."

"Do I even want to know what you two are up to?!" Lestrade shouted.

"No," said Sherlock gleefully.

"What about your baby?!"

"Got him well taken care of," said Sherlock breezily as he got out of his chair. "We'll take the train back to London this evening. Alert Arthur Weasley and the rest. Don't dally!"

And with that, Sherlock ended the call, blithely disregarding Lestrade's furious expostulations. Then he dialed two on his speed dial.

Before long, the monitors showed John Watson pulling out a mobile phone, Harry Potter lowering his hands and Sirius Black shakily getting back to his feet.

"It's time," Sherlock intoned.

Harry seemed to sag a little. Sirius bared his teeth. John merely shrugged.

"'About time."

-oo00oo-

**Final Notes**: And here we go again. Thank you for your patience!

I've taken the time to thoroughly iron out my Plans for ASIM-TA (I already had them, but if you have any idea what kind of detail freak I can be…). I've also spent time working on my original novel, now about half-way done. ;) ;) ;)


	2. Pascal's Wager

**A Study in Magic: The Application**  
by _Books of Change_

**Warning/Notes**: This is the sequel to _A Study in Magic, _which is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU posted here. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline was shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender was changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!

* * *

Chapter One: Pascal's Wager

Harry Potter imagined himself doing many different things when he returned to London, after spending a month in the country. Sitting on 221B's leather armchair, with a grey-haired couple sitting across from him on the sofa, and listening to an old lady talk for seemingly hours whilst trying not to slouch or sigh was not one of them.

"…which wasn't the way I'd put it at all, silly woman," she rambled. "Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?' He's _always_ losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?

"'Fraid so," said the man.

Harry let out a tiny sigh and clawed at the armrests.

"Keys … small change … sweeties," the woman went on obliviously. "Especially his—"

"_Glasses_," the man and woman said, almost simultaneously.

"Blooming things," continued the woman. "I said, 'Why don't you get a chain, and wear 'em round your neck?' And he says, 'What, like –'"

"_Larry Grayson_," the couple said together.

"So did you find it?" asked Harry, his frustration getting the better of him, "Your – lottery ticket?"

"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all," said the woman matter-of-factly. "We managed to see, er, St. Paul's, the Tower …"

That moment, the door to the living room opened and a girl dressed for outdoor exercise and had her thick brown hair up in a high ponytail walked in. Harry stared at her in surprise.

"Sorry, you're busy," Julia Lestrade said as she glanced at the grey-haired couple.

Then she blinked as she took in the sight of a man who looked like Sherlock thirty years into the future, and a white-haired woman who had Sherlock's eyes and wore a black jacket with the collar propped up.

"A friend of yours, dear?" asked the woman as she studied Julia with considerable interest.

Harry quickly got to his feet. "It's time for you to go."

"Oh, is it?" said the woman.

"_Yes_," said Harry, as he gestured wildly at the wall clock and the door.

The couple got up from the couch obligingly. Julia jumped out of their way and stood by the table.

"Tell him to ring up more often, will you?" the man said as he took out a white, foldable cane.

"Umm … well …" Harry stuttered.

"She _worries_," said the man, his milky eyes downcast towards the woman's general direction.

Harry sighed. "Okay. Bye."

The woman briefly stroked Harry's cheek before she headed out, an arm hooked around the man's neighbouring elbow. Harry hastily shut the door behind them.

"Sorry about that," said Harry as he leaned against the door.

"No, no, I didn't knock, sorry," said Julia, wide-eyed. "So who were they?"

"They're…"

Harry paused. He didn't know what to call Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. 'Grandma and Grandpa' felt about as awkward as him calling Sherlock 'Dad'.

"…Sherlock's parents," he said eventually.

Julia blinked, "His _parents_."

Harry nodded. "They're in town for a few days."

"_They_ are his parents," muttered Julia, now looking out by the window.

"Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of _Les Mis_," sighed Harry, "he'll probably try to talk me into doing it."

Julia exhaled. "Well. That's …" she looked at Harry, then down the window and back again.

"What?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I mean, they're just … so…" stammered Julia.

Harry looked at her.

"…_Ordinary_," she finished.

Harry snickered. "Sherlock says that the cross he has to bear."

Then he went and resumed his seat on the leather armchair. Julia walked away from the window and sat on the red one.

"Looks like you've been running a lot," said Harry, noting the muddy running shoes on Julia's feet.

"Grandpa's been putting me through the paces," said Julia.

"Oh, yeah, how is he?"

"He takes me to Seattle for trail running and then spends the afternoon hiking the Shenandoah Mountains."

Harry squinted.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't he get _shot_ a month ago?"

"Do you think a gunshot wound can stop him?" Julia huffed. "Mind, he's not a complete monster. He's under doctor's orders to not use magic until he completely heals and he's listening."

"How does he travel to Seattle, then? A broom?"

"Too far, and you can get shot down. Literally," said Julia. "Robert has a wardrobe that takes you to Mt. Rainer."

Harry smiled. "He would. Now what about Ron, Neville and Hermione? How are they doing?"

"Fudge tried to take Ron to court for what happened at the last task of the Triwizard Tournament," said Julia calmly. "But the Wizengamot threw out the case; said he had no grounds for a suit. He's out of the office now."

"Good," said Harry, feeling very vindictive. "What about Hermione?"

"Panicking over O.W.L.s. and the war."

"Of course. I assume Neville's getting harassed by his relatives over the same."

"He hid at my place and Ron's when it got too much," said Julia, lips twitching. "So what about you, did John and Sherlock stuff in you cage and abandon in you in a forest? Where are they, anyway?"

"Out. And nah, I just did a lot of running through grasslands and hills," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "Well, I say _a lot_ … John cut my training in half when I went down with a cold after thirty minutes of running. What's up with alternative magic and running, anyway?"

"If _you_ don't know, how can _I_ know?"

"Your grandfather is the Grandmaster. You tell me," Harry retorted.

"Geezers like grandpa rarely explain; they just tell you what to do and expect you to obey," parried Julia. Then she paused. "Most of my training was endurance training, and it sounds like yours was, too. Since the magic requirement for Dao-ga is a lot higher than mainstream wizardry, I think that's why everyone's pushing you to run."

Harry nodded. Practitioners of Dao-ga— an obscure, dying branch of magic— didn't use wands, but cultivated their magic to the point it saturated their entire body, thus making their own body a wand, to cast spells. The reason why Harry had to learn it was if he could consciously control his magic, he would be able to transfer the soul fragment of Lord Voldemort currently residing in him to someone else if he gave his magic to that person. This was possible because life and magic were intrinsically tied together, so when one gave their _life_ to someone else via blood donation, one gave their magic also.

While many preferred that he, Harry, would give the soul fragment to someone who was on death row or about to die from illness or old age, since the person's death would also mean the soul fragment's death, Harry instinctively knew it wouldn't work as neatly as they thought. For one thing, they would have to _find_ a death row inmate about to get executed, was willing to house a soul fragment of Voldemort, and wouldn't spill the beans to a Death Eater — a tall order for anyone. Yet more importantly, the new receptacle of the soul fragment had to be _human_, _magical_ and _willing_. The only person who met all requirements, and was willing to take something as vile as a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul, was Dr. Robert Dongyi Ju, husband-to-be of Julia's maternal Aunt, Jacqueline Shin. Harry had been too desperate to refuse the most generous offer. So all Harry had to do was learn Dao-ga.

But therein lay the problem. In order to learn Dao-ga, one had to cultivate one's magic, and the only way to cultivate one's magic was to challenge one's life with _hardship_. Since one of the simplest and most straightforward forms of hardship was physical fitness training, Harry had decided to take that route. However, Harry's fitness level was such that he would find himself emptying the contents of his stomach after a mere thirty minutes of running and then lying in bed the next day with cold-like symptoms.

"Over-training," John declared when this happened for the first time. "We're going to have to dial down a bit…"

"I can keep going," Harry protested weakly.

John lightly bopped his head. "You won't. Not if you want to keep your body intact."

So John switched Harry's training to series of body-weight exercises, short runs (defined as twenty minutes) at maddeningly slow paces, and burpees. The latter usually left Harry flat on the ground, drenched in sweat, muscles aching and cursing the day he was born. It wasn't long before Harry started to notice a pattern. He was fast, but only in short bursts. That was no good, because for Dao-ga, stamina was everything. Yet try as he might, he didn't seemed to be lasting any longer. This pointed to an unbearable, but unescapable conclusion: the greatest weakness of the wizarding world was … Harry himself.

Harry looked down at his knees as the thought hit him hard once more. As usual, the pain was as crippling as the first time.

Julia, who watched Harry quiet down, spoke after a beat.

"You don't have to _run_ to learn Dao-ga," she said carefully. "Grandpa's cultivated his magic through dancing."

That jolted Harry rudely. "That's a disturbing image," he muttered.

"Dancing is required for _Baksu Mudang_. Uncle Jeremy told me grandpa once joined a ballet troupe for—"

"Okay, stop!" Harry shouted as he covered his eyes. "I get it!"

Julia smirked briefly before sobering.

"Why not music? You're pretty good at the violin."

"Not that good," Harry protested.

"You're good enough to audition!" said Julia earnestly. "C'mon, what if—"

"I know, I know," Harry interrupted. "I'm actually going to ask Dumbledore what he thinks about me switching to music."

Julia let out a sigh of relief. "And if he's favourable, no more running?"

"I'll continue," said Harry, "Just as not as intensely; hedging my bets and all that."

"That's safer, I suppose," said Julia. "So are you up for a run now?"

"Yeah, sure," said Harry. Then he raised an eyebrow at her. "John asked you, didn't she?"

"Why else would I come here?" said Julia teasingly before adding, "Seriously, though, I'd like a running buddy. I can't ask Hermione or Ginny 'cause they both think I'm nuts for running at all. I do okay alone, but it gets lonely after the first hour."

"'First hour'; _ha_," Harry muttered as he stood up. Then he smiled wryly as he recalled the talk that made him continue the much despised running…

-oo00oo-

About two weeks into summer holidays, Harry started hiding from John so as to avoid training, which he by then considered a brutal and futile exercise. Sherlock, of course, found him within ten minutes.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded the second time it happened. "Why aren't you training?"

Harry shrugged. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at that.

"What's troubling you?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.

Harry shrugged again and then looked away. Soon he heard Sherlock exhaled through his nostrils.

"What – is – troubling – you?" Sherlock enunciated.

An awkward atmosphere descended in the room as Sherlock's question remained unanswered. It soon turned to toxic smog like consistency. Sherlock, of course, was entirely unfazed and bore his intense stare at Harry, silently demanding an answer. Harry stubbornly kept his mouth shut as long as he could, despite knowing it was useless.

At last Harry caved.

"I don't know what to do," he said helplessly.

Sherlock nodded knowingly.

"You have a habit letting your intuition guide your decision-making," he said. "That's only going to leave you paralyzed right now. Instead, think rationally."

"But _how_?" Harry cried.

"Use Pascal's Wager," Sherlock replied.

Harry frowned. "What's that?"

"The famous French mathematician Blaise Pascal defended his belief in God in the following manner," Sherlock explained. "Suppose God doesn't exist. The atheist wins, and the believer loses. If God does exist, the situation reverses. The consequences of being wrong with each belief, however, differ starkly.

"If God doesn't exist, all the devout believer has lost is the opportunity to fornicate, imbibe and skip many boring religious services. And since how you live doesn't matter at all in a godless universe, neither person has lost anything because there is nothing ultimate to lose to begin with. But if God does exist, the atheist roasts eternally in hell. The rational person— at least one who is convinced the Almighty cares about how we behave and what we think— thus chooses to believe God exists."

Harry nodded slowly. He could follow the argument, and the logic was clean. Yet he couldn't help but feel that there was something missing. He also couldn't connect the argument to decision-making, but rather thought it sounded like Sherlock agreed with Pascal.

"Note that I've said nothing whatsoever about my own conclusion on the matter," said Sherlock, a knowing smirk on his lips. "You should also note Pascal's Wager is not an argument for or against the existence of God. It's simply a practical application of statistics and probability."

Harry frowned again. Why was Sherlock bringing up statistics and probability? What did it have to do with his future?

"You have one pressing and unavoidable goal in your life at this moment, and that's defeating LV," Sherlock stated. "You may rationally believe that you will win. If you are certain of this, then preparing for a life beyond the final battle is the correct response to this assumption. But you cannot be sure. There exists the possibility that you may lose. So you must factor this when you decide on how to spend your time.

"If you split your efforts between preparing for the final battle and your life afterwards, and you are wrong and you lose, it won't matter because you will most likely be dead. But if you are right and you do win the war, all you've lost is the chance of having a more prestigious future.

"Now, suppose you spend all your time on battle preparation and you are wrong. Then you're still dead or as good as. But if you win, you are ruined because you've burned all your bridges. Again, suppose you go all in preparing for your future after the battle. This increases your chances of dying, which defeats the purpose of preparing for that future, but you would sit quite prettily indeed if you do survive."

Harry pulled a face. Of course Sherlock wouldn't consider how much he, Harry, would hate himself if he made such a selfish decision as the latter.

"So if you are wise, what would you do?" asked Sherlock.

"Do both?" said Harry, still grimacing.

"Yes," said Sherlock, nodding. "This gets into the heart of your dilemma. Your goal is not maximizing the chances of winning, but rather simultaneously increasing the odds of a good life after the war and minimizing your chances of dying. Now for you, a good life after the war is densely tied to how well you handle the battle, isn't it?"

Harry nodded curtly.

"So your instinct may tell you to pour all your efforts to battle preparation," Sherlock went on. "You'll be stupid if you do. Remember Pascal's wager: what will happen to me if my assumptions are wrong? Preparing for your future after the war is not nearly as costly as going all in on battle preparation."

"But I have to do it!" said Harry furiously.

"Of course," said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "You're going to hedge your bets and do both, aren't you? Now however you divvy up your efforts—and I recommend an 80/20 percent split, 80 going to the most important item—you need _time_. The only way you can have time is eliminating anything that is irrelevant to your goal. Your school work and classes are fixtures that take about 80% of your day, but since it covers prep for your future as well as battle prep, you can leave it as is. This leaves you about 20% of extracurricular time. It is here you can make changes. Take, for instance, Quidditch."

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach.

"Y-you think I should quit?" he stammered.

Sherlock shrugged carelessly, "Unless you were planning to go professional."

Harry swallowed hard as he thought about it. Truth be told, he had fantasies of standing in the middle of a golden Quidditch pitch, wearing England's colours, while Ludo Bagman's magnified voice hollered: 'And I give you… _Potter_!' since watching the Quidditch World Cup last year. However, these fantasies were just that: fancies. He wasn't like Oliver Wood, his old Quidditch House Team Captain, who was now playing for Puddlemere United in their reserve team. He didn't consider Quidditch to define his life.

"…I should," Harry admitted painfully. "It's not like I can play for more than an hour…"

"So you gain an hour," said Sherlock, smiling in approval. "The next thing to consider is your music lessons."

Harry stared, startled. Both Sherlock and John had been so adamant about music lessons, it hadn't occurred to him Sherlock would actually allow him to quit. He also felt surprised when an intense feeling of regret, quite similar to the one he felt when he thought about quitting his House Quidditch Team, stabbed through his chest. He couldn't understand it; he dreamed of quitting violin. So why did he feel regret?

"Unlike Quidditch, your music lessons are more than just entertainment," said Sherlock. "Through it you have relations with Jacqueline. I was also told music is one of the three venues through which you can learn Dao-ga, which is directly related to battle prep."

Harry sagged. Of course Sherlock wouldn't let him just quit.

"I know you're training for long-distance running to learn Dao-ga," said Sherlock, giving Harry the Look. "You have the temperament of an athlete, so running makes sense. However, it would be foolish to simply discard violin when you've already built two years of experience. You also don't know which option will be more effective. Don't forget Pascal's wager."

Sherlock then bore his piercing eyes into Harry's.

"I'll leave the final decision to you," he said. "Choose wisely."

-oo00oo-

**Final Notes**: Mummy and Daddy Holmes are trying to get better at the business of small talk and pretending to be normal (ha). Harry knows the former (but not the latter), and is trying to honor their efforts ;)

Sorry for the lack of update. These past 2 weeks, I've been running around as though my head's been lopped off after receiving news that I might get laid off/made redundant. I'm using whatever time I have—which isn't a lot, unfortunately— to write this. I've got interview(s) lined, but who knows … I do hope for a good outcome ;)


	3. A Melancholy Birthday

**A Study in Magic: The Application**  
by _Books of Change_

**Warning/Notes**: This is the sequel to _A Study in Magic, _which is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU posted here. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline was shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender was changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!

* * *

Chapter Two: A Melancholy Birthday

Ron was going over Zing's incident reports for the month of June—five rolls of parchment in total— with Fred and George when his mother burst into his room.

"John just called," she said, waving her phone. "We're going to Baker Street to celebrate Harry's birthday."

"Now?" asked Ron, startled.

"Well, of course!" said mum, raising an eyebrow at them. "His birthday is today, you should know that."

"Of course we do," said Fred. "We just didn't know he was back in London."

"Well, you know now," said Mum sternly. "So clean up this mess and get ready!"

Then she turned and shut the door behind her.

"Our work is just a mess, now, eh?" Ron grumbled angrily. "Let's see if she'll still call it a mess when the customers hurl Howlers at us…"

"Forget it," said George bracingly. "It's not like she understands what we're doing. Besides, it _is_ Harry's birthday; should be fun."

Ron nodded mutely. Fred and George started talking about which Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes merchandise they should give Harry as his birthday present soon after. Ron didn't join the conversation, for he was trying to squish the ugly feeling of resentment that rose like miasma at the mention of Harry's name.

Ron knew his feelings were unjustified. It was not like Harry paraded his fame/abilities and demanded special treatment/recognition from anyone, let alone Ron. It was just … for once, he wanted to be treated like someone special. Wasn't being the director of Zing ®, formerly the Magical Mobile Network, at age fifteen special enough? Of course, there was that little problem of no one _believing_ that he was …

"You're too quiet," said George, frowning at Ron. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," said Ron tersely, "Just thinking about what to get."

"Didn't you already get him something?"

"Yeah, but on the second thought, I can do better," Ron lied.

Fred shrugged, "Suite yourself. I'm hungry. Let's go grab something."

And with that, he and George Dispparated.

Ron remained in his seat, brooding.

Ever since Fudge tried, but failed, to take him to court, Ron had a suspicion that gnawed on him constantly: the reason the Ministry for Magic didn't bother to arrest him was because they thought he couldn't possibly have a major role in the MMN, thus couldn't be responsible for the MMN debacle. While he was immensely relieved at not having to face judge and jury, he couldn't help but rage at the implications.

Before the MMN, Ron thought becoming as rich as Croesus would make him feel happy and fulfilled. Yet after gaining more wealth than he knew what to do with, Ron found himself still feeling discontent. He was missing something, and that something looked a lot like _acknowledgement._

Maybe … maybe if he became Prefect, people would take him seriously. Maybe then they'd think he was someone worth knowing. Of course, Ron had no hope of getting the badge. He gave up any chance of being named Prefect when he gave his all to the Magical Mobile Network. The only reason he didn't fail out of Hogwarts was Miss. Jack's very real threat to sack him if he got marks worse than Poor. And who in their right mind would make him Prefect over _Harry Potter_?

At length Ron let out a heavy sigh.

"This is stupid, and I sound like Percy," he muttered.

Ron let out another sigh. Then he stomped down to the kitchen.

-oo00oo-

Ron and his family—minus Percy; he didn't show his ugly mug in the Burrow since moving out—travelled to Baker Street late in the afternoon, Ron and Ginny via Floo-powder, everyone else via Apparition. Ron arrived there first, and let out a gasp after he stumbled out of the fireplace and caught his first glimpse of Harry since the summer holidays started.

To say Harry looked a bit different was like saying a Blast-ended Skrewt turned cute. Harry's hair was completely white – even his eyebrows were the same shade. He'd also grown quite a bit, but his skin gave the appearance of not catching up; it stretched over his longer frame like old bleached parchment. Harry wasn't wearing glasses, but he wasn't squinting as he was wont to when deprived of them. The only thing that remained the same, more or less, was his attire and eyes: The former a mixture of midnight and black, and the latter still bright green.

More people joined Ron's stunned silence as his family members either stumbled out of the basement fireplace or popped into existence. Ginny looked frankly appalled, and Mum threw her hands over her mouth.

"Oh, Harry, dear…" Mum whispered, sounding aghast.

John, who was standing a little behind Harry, smiled wryly. Harry shrugged.

"It's just a colour change," he said.

"You should've picked a different one," said George. "Red is a good choice. Then we can call you our brother, and no one would be wiser. Happy Birthday, by the way."

The rest of the Weasleys hastily offered their Happy Birthdays to Harry. Ron felt guilty for getting so hung up about Harry's changed appearance. Except the glasses, all of them he knew had been unavoidable.

"Thanks," said Harry, after the last person finished thumping his back or shake his hand. "And I did try dying my hair, just so you know."

"Dark colours, mostly," said John. "No one was keen about Harry turning blonde. Well, Sherlock didn't care, but we did. All in all, not worth it: black dyes were either too black or had a weird blue tint. Dark red looked fine, but it freaked out Sirius."

They continued to talk about hair colour options as they climbed up the stairs. Then Fred asked the question that nibbled at Ron the most:

"Why aren't you wearing glasses, Harry?"

"I don't need them anymore," Harry said.

"How come?" asked George.

"I got a Muggle procedure that corrects your eyesight done," Harry answered.

"When?" asked Ron, "And why Muggle and not St. Mungo's?"

"Right after I got back to London, and because we didn't know St. Mungo's offered reliable eyesight correction," said Harry. Then he touched the bridge of his nose, like he was pushing up invisible spectacles. "It still feels weird to be able to see the clock from across the room when I wake up."

"You look better with glasses," Ginny muttered quietly.

"I agree," said John, making Ginny jump. "But I didn't want to risk him losing his sight from shattered glass."

Ron was in a sombre mood by the time they reached the first floor. The door to the living room was closed, but one could hear the muffled sounds of a baby giggling through the wood. Then John held the door the open for everyone, and the noise went up in the full volume.

221B's living room looked as it usually did, if one ignored the fact it was extended three times its usual scale and the table between the windows had stacks of white containers, bottles of drinks, and a large chocolate cake. In the centre of the room stood a white picket fence that reached only up to Ron's knee. Inside the fenced area there was Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, and Jeremy Benedict Holmes, Harry's ten-month-old baby brother. Sirius had his hands outstretched towards Benedict, who was standing on his own two feet.

"Merlin, he can walk now?!" Dad exclaimed as Benedict took a single wobbly step.

"Yep, he's gone mobile," said John, grinning. "Heaven help us."

"When did he crawl?" asked Mum, as she and everyone else crowded around the fence.

"He never did," said John. "Just wouldn't warm up to the concept."

Benedict took two more wobbly steps and then toppled. Ron and his family applauded as Sirius caught him in the nick of time.

"He's growing up so fast," said Mum fondly.

John made an agreeing noise. Then she stooped down and hefted Benedict up. Ron looked around to see who else was there in the calm that followed. He found Sherlock sitting on the leather armchair, open book in hand. Remus Lupin, his Defence against the Dark Arts professor, and the only one to have survived his first year of teaching the subject (two years and counting!), was by the kitchen's sliding doors. Julia Lestrade and Neville Longbottom were occupying the couch. Hermione was absent.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron asked.

"On her way," said Julia, smiling in way that eerily reminded Ron of Miss Jack (or should he call her Mrs. Jack?) "You know London traffic."

Ron didn't, but decided not to remark upon it.

Hermione showed up with her parents shortly thereafter. John opened the food table upon their arrival (yay!). While Ron, his siblings and his friends descended on the food, Hermione's mother and father honed in on Ron's mum and dad. Ron overheard a snippet of their conversation on his way back from the table with his heavy-laden plate.

"Hogwarts is the safest place to be, under the circumstances," Dad was saying firmly. "That's why I'm sending my own children back."

Ron sat next to Hermione at the couch.

"You told your parents about You-Know-Who?" he asked quietly.

Hermione bit her lower lip. "I had to," she said. "The Ministry sent safety brochures to all households that have at least one witch or wizard, remember? They read it, and wanted to know what happened."

"How did the talk go?"

"As well as you can expect," said Hermione. "We haven't talked about it recently, but I know they still prefer I go to a Muggle Comprehensive and study for the GSCEs. At least until the dust settles."

"Would you?" Ron asked.

"Of course not!" said Hermione indignantly. "I'm not running away!"

Ron smiled.

Unlike Harry's memorable twelfth birthday, this year everyone was content to sit, talk to each other, and partake the good food and drinks, even when Fred and George pulled out the fireworks (they weren't lit; John told them she will not be responsible for her actions if they upset Benedict, and Mum drew her wand at them). Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Julia and Neville talked about their summers.

"Bill's back at home," said Ron. "He applied for a desk job at the England branch so he could work for the Order."

"Can't be that exciting, compared to being a curse-breaker," Harry remarked.

"He says he misses the tombs," said Fred. "But there are compensations."

"Like what?" Julia asked.

"Remember Fleur Delacour? She's got a job at Gringotts to eemprove 'er Eenglish—" George sniggered. "—Bill's been giving her a lot of private lessons."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. Then he shared a knowing look with Julia. Ron stole a look at his sister when they did. Ginny looked unmoved, but then again, there seemed to be a strained air about her.

Rain started to lash the windows as the day grew old. A chill started to permeate through the flat, so Ron's mum lit a roaring fire in the fireplace. Ron felt like he'd sunk himself in a hot bath afterwards.

"Oh, this is so cosy," said Mrs. Granger, as she stared at the fire with a steaming teacup in her hand.

"Mmmn," Sherlock rumbled. He then turned to prod John, who was sitting next to him at the couch, fast asleep. He blinked when she didn't wake up.

Lupin came to the rescue.

"Why don't we open presents?" he said, clasping his hands.

Everyone gathered around Harry, holding their wrapped gifts. Ron studied their sizes and shapes, and figured most people got an item in the wish list Sherlock and John sent out. The list made gift-buying easy, but some of the items listed made Ron suspect Harry wasn't the one who created it.

Fred and George presented their gift first: They dragged in a chest that an overlarge red bow tied in the middle.

"Here you go, Harry," said Fred, grinning. "Enjoy."

Harry stared. "Why a chest?"

"We didn't know what you'd need for defence, so we put everything that might be useful," said George.

"_Defence_?" Mum exclaimed, outraged, as Harry untied the ribbon and threw open the lid.

The chest was full to the brim with Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes products such as Extendable Ears, Self-Propelling Custard Pies, and an impressive number of firecrackers. Sherlock joined Harry at the floor and started pulling out the contents like a child would at Christmas.

"What's this?" asked Harry, holding up a small leather sack.

"Peruvian Instant Darkness powder," said George. "Throw it, and you get instant darkness. Lighting spells won't work in it."

"Interesting," said Sherlock. "So how would you navigate through the darkness you've created?"

"Eh, we were thinking along the lines of throwing it _at_ your enemy, so you can escape," said Fred.

"You should always have a fail-safe for the weapons you make," said Sherlock sternly. "Start working."

Fred rolled his eyes and George shrugged ruefully. "Will do," said the latter.

Harry moved on to his other gifts while Sherlock continued to examine the chest. Hermione's gift was a box of Honeydukes chocolates and a book titled: _Born to Run_ –_ A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen_; Neville, a pot of dittany ("Uncle Algie got it directly from Crete."); Lupin, a book titled: _Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts_ ("It's from both me and Sirius"). Even Dobby the house-elf brought a present, which turned out to be – _socks_.

"Dobby is making them himself, sir!" the elf said happily. "He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!"

The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green with a pattern of Snitches.

"They're … they're really … well, thanks, Dobby," said Harry. Then he pulled them on, causing Dobby's eyes to leak with happiness.

There were four more presents left after Dobby's odd socks, one of which was Ron's. Harry opened the box-shaped one first. It contained pair of black shoes that had thick cushioned soles, a mesh body and silver stripes that reflected light (Hermione told Ron they were for running, which made him incredulous; Muggles had shoes just for _running_? What for?!).

"Thanks, Dad," said Harry sardonically as he held up the shoes. Then he placed them to the side and picked up a hefty-looking parcel that was from Sirius.

"Don't bother," said Sherlock, after putting away the profoundly disturbed look that formed on his face when Harry called him 'Dad'. "It's just high-end Quidditch Gear."

"How do you know that?" Sirius demanded.

"I followed you," said Sherlock.

"I saw no one," Sirius protested.

"That is what you may expect to see when I follow you," said Sherlock haughtily.

Harry opened the gift anyway. As Sherlock said, it contained a trunk of Quidditch equipment: all four balls, with the Bludgers chained to the bottom and the Snitch locked inside an inner compartment; a pair of Beaters bats and polish to clean them. There was also a small mirror.

"It's a two-way mirror," said Sirius. "James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions."

"This is great," said Harry happily. "So you've got the other one of the pair?"

"Yep," said Sirius. "If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you'll appear in my mirror and I'll be able to talk in yours. We have phones now, I know, but it doesn't hurt to have a backup plan."

"I agree," said Lupin. "Anyway, Sherlock, why did you say to not bother with the Quidditch equipment?"

"Yeah, what's up with that?" asked Sirius.

"He's quitting the team," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"WHAT?!" Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny shouted.

"You're lying!" howled Sirius.

"He's not," Harry mumbled very quietly, without looking at anyone.

"Why?!" Ron cried. "You love Quidditch! You're the best Seeker I've ever seen! Even Krum's got nothing on you!"

"I'm not, and I really don't want to quit," said Harry miserably. "But I need the time to _prepare_."

A hush fell in the living room after that statement. For a long beat, only the sound of the cackling fire and Benedict quietly whimpering could be heard.

"…Sherlock told you to quit, didn't he?" said Sirius, scowling heavily. "You know, your father would've never let anyone stop him from having fun. You don't have to do everything he says. He's not right all the time."

Harry flinched. Then he turned to look at John, who was still fast asleep.

"How amusing," Sherlock said coldly.

"What is?" demanded Sirius.

"You," drawled Sherlock. "Dumbledore will be quite pleased to know that you and Snape, for once, are in agreement."

Sirius drew out his wand furiously.

"_Stop it_!" said Harry, jumping in between the two men. "No one's forcing me! I thought about it, and made up my mind!"

"But he's influenced you!" growled Sirius. "He's turning you into someone you're not! You—"

"Sirius, this is not the time," Lupin interrupted.

"But Remus…!" Sirius started to protest.

"_Padfoot_!" said Lupin sharply. "Sit. Down."

Sirius sat down.

There was an awkward silence. Ron shivered as the chill within the group seemed to seep into the very atmosphere, despite the lit fire.

Harry walked over to John and nudged again. Then he flicked his eyes at the fire, which seemed to diminish before their eyes, and a look of horrified realization dawned on his pallid face.

"Dementors…!" he whispered.

"What, here?!" Dad exclaimed. "But that can't be! Not here in—"

Harry shot out of the flat, wand drawn, ignoring all protest. Ron followed after him.

Heavy downpour was battering the pavement outside, and Ron soon found himself drenched. Heedless of the wet and cold, Harry cast his eyes about, searching the dark streets determinately. Ron wondered how Harry could see anything, as all the street lights in the vicinity were out.

Suddenly, as if sensing something, Harry looked up. Ron looked up, too, and saw, very dimly, a crowd of tall dark shadows hovering on the roof of 221B.

Ron felt his heart jump to his throat when the shadows fell upon them like a nightmare.

Then he was falling … endlessly falling … in cold, mind-numbing despair…

But then he heard someone yell:

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

-oo00oo-

**Final Notes**: Thank you everyone for your well-wishes and patience. I did get laid off/was made redundant (hazards of government contract work, alas), but found employment before the month was over. My new commute is awful and I haven't fully settled in yet, so I'll be updating on a monthly basis until further notice…


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